


Who Was That Masked Man?

by HiddenLacuna



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Consensual Sex, Established Relationship, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Roleplay, a gun appears but is not used, sexy burglar fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1888974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson receives an unexpected visitor in the night. </p><p>Alternate summary: BORED. HORNY. MURDERER? OH, FUCK YOU, HOLMES. HAVE SOME COCK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Was That Masked Man?

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt Dressed to Kill, from CorpseReviver2 for the Come At Once July 2014 challenge. 
> 
> A million sticky, humid, run-on-sentence-y thanks to Mydwynter and TiltedSyllogism for the lightning beta, and for making me laugh more at their comments than at this ridiculous story.

It was late September in the year 1895, and London was damnably, unreasonably, disgustingly hot.

I lay sleeplessly in my bachelor bed in my bedroom at Baker Street, where I had taken rooms some years earlier with my intimate friend, the detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I hadn’t seen Holmes for days, which was not unusual, but that I should have had no word from him at all vexed me more with each passing day. Still, I resolved to put such thoughts aside until morning, and to take advantage of having the house entirely to myself.

The air was flat and still, and it seemed the entire city had collapsed under the weight of the heat that remained trapped between the pavement and the low, oppressive atmosphere. Barely a sound reached my ears from outside my opened window, which had been thrown wide in hopes of catching the smallest errant breath of air. Sleep had eluded me for many hours now, and, cursing the omnipresent heat that brought my mind back to the worst and brightest days of Afghanistan, I once again drew a clean rag from the wash-bowl, wrung it slightly in the basin, and passed it, dripping, from the tops of my feet to the edges of my collarbones in hopes of cooling myself enough to be able to drop into the elusive arms of Morpheus.

Such was the line of my thoughts, and such was my torment and distress, that I began to wonder whether I could steal downstairs and avail myself of one of my friend's syringes of morphine in order to pass the time insensible until at least morning. Surely, this household was no stranger to drugged sleep and the keeping of queer hours? But no sooner had I turned my mind to trying to work out whether his supply might be kept in our shared rooms downstairs, or whether I might attempt to breach the sanctum of his bedroom in search of my relief, that I realized that I was idly considering succumbing to exactly that from which I dearly wished my friend would resolve to abstain. I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes in frustration, alone in the dark. Clearly I had become a desperate man.

I wet the rag again and swiped it over my chest, allowing water to collect in the tightly coiled hairs. I could smell the scent of myself, musky and heavy in the already thick air. I decided, since no puckish zephyr seemed inclined to stop in at my window, to manufacture a breeze. I blew slowly across my chest, from one direction to the other, and then back again. I believe it must have begun to work, for I could see gooseflesh forming on my skin, and my nipples were beginning to harden against the cooler air. I fancied the deep breathing would help me to finally drop off, too, so I continued to repeat the action.

I have no idea how long I lay in the dark, blowing rhythmically across myself, but I believe I was nearer sleep than I had been for hours when all of a sudden I was on alert. I froze, wondering what had aroused my soldier’s instincts, and pricked up my ears to listen intently. Had there been a sound from the rooftop outside?

I was soon gratified in my suspicions, as indeed there again came a slight scraping sound – closer now, I was sure of it. I slowly pushed one hand beneath my pillow and grasped my service pistol, gripping it firmly in my hand while I rolled out of bed as noiselessly as I was able and dropped to a crouch. I shifted myself behind the foot of the bed and aimed my attention towards the window at the opposite end of the room. I was keenly aware of the shut door at my back – I thought that, should it become necessary, I could reach it to escape or to shout for Mrs Hudson with but a few steps. I had the advantage over my visitor, in that I knew intimately the contours of the room and house beyond.

However, it is not for nothing that I have lived with Sherlock Holmes for lo these many years, although I am sure he would not hesitate to scoff at my attempt to ape his methods. I knew that it was a fatal mistake to theorise ahead of the facts, and therefore I would wait to be certain as to whether my nocturnal visitor was a dangerous and vicious enemy or merely a lusty tomcat on the prowl. I kept myself hidden among the shadows, and waited.

It soon became apparent that it was not an amorous moggy, but was a man of unknown origin. He stood just outside my window, balancing with ease upon the rooftop tiles, and though I could see little more than his outline in the waxing moonlight, I could tell that he was peering into my chambers. He turned his head, perhaps to ensure that no witnesses were party to his imminent ingress, and I saw his profile clearly against the sky. He was a lean man, but muscular, and clearly no stranger to breaking and entering, from the relaxed set of his shoulders.

Tightening my grip upon my pistol, I resolved to teach this brute a lesson he'd not soon forget, if he became so bold as to enter into my domicile unannounced. And look – here he came, bold as you please and quiet as a mouse, stepping gracefully over the windowsill and into my bedroom. He wore a thin black mask across his nose and brow, and the rest of his attire was similarly black as sin and as fitted to his body as a well-worn leather glove. A couple of quiet sniffs told me that my visitor was scenting the air, as a predator does while seeking its prey. He reached out and patted my recently-vacated bedclothes with a delicately probing hand. Apparently satisfying himself that the bed and thus room were unoccupied, he turned to the lamp on my night table and turned it up enough to illuminate the room.

"That's quite far enough, my dear fellow," I said, rising from my crouch, and aiming my pistol at his heart. His eyes widened behind the mask as he took me in. I became aware in that moment, as it had quite slipped my mind, that I had been abed in the altogether. Well, well, I decided, no modesty amongst thieves. "Put your hands above your head and get onto your knees." 

With the barest hint of a smirk, he did as I'd instructed. "Now, now, guv, no need to get your knickers in a twist – so to speak, anyway. I was just thirsty, was all, and was looking for a place to stop where I might find a drop or two to my liking." The voice emanating from my visitor had more Cockney twang in its accent than the broadest review comedy act. 

It was all I could do not to burst out laughing at this statement, but I soon regained my composure. "Indeed? You come creeping into a private residence EXACTLY like a thief in the night, and you're merely looking for some … refreshment?”

“Thass right, innit? Now, what sort of refreshment could a fine upstandin’ gentleman like yersself offer a poor beggar like me on a night like this?” And the blighter licked his lips. 

Well. Such cheek could certainly not go unpunished within the hallowed halls of Baker Street. Never taking my eyes off the villain, I tucked my gun into the second drawer of my dresser. I noted that his sharp eyes followed my every move, but I was resolved to press my advantage to the fullest. I realized that my member had been stirring since first I rose from behind the bed, and now jutted proudly out before me, as though straining to batter my intruder senseless.

I walked over to the man until my cock was but a hand’s length away from his masked and upturned face. I could see his own trousers were concealing quite the cosh. “I do believe I have something to spare, yes,” I said, and stroked my thumb across his bottom lip, pulling it down. His mouth opened readily, and without further penny-dreadful dialogue I allowed him to suckle at my cock – to slake his suffering, you understand. 

It was apparent that my interloper had gone quite some time without refreshment, and he attended his task with the zeal of a desert wanderer stumbling across an oasis. I cursed and balled my fists in the material of his shirt. He glanced up and held my gaze from behind his ridiculous mask, and winked before he sucked me deep into the well of his throat and wriggled his tongue against what felt like the full length of my cock. It was more than I could bear – I overflowed and spilled and gushed into his mouth until I was completely dry.

As the last of my paroxysm shook through me, I relaxed my grip on my mid-night companion’s shoulders. I allowed myself to collapse, face-down, upon my bed, and lay there, quite unmoving, waiting for his nerve to break.

I did not have to wait for long. I heard the hurried rustling of cloth behind me and within an instant I could feel the man laid out along my back, his trousers pushed to his knees and his shirt rucked up to his chest. He clutched at my sides and I felt the hot length of his spit-slicked cockstand nudging against the backs of my thighs. Grinning into the darkness, I spread my legs enough to give him access, clamped down again, then squeezed tightly while he moaned and rutted against me. I could feel hot breath and then a tongue laving against the nape of my neck, cleaning me of my sweat. In much less time than I would have liked, he lost his rhythm and his body jerked and clenched, his seed spilling onto my bollocks in hot jets.

He soon rolled aside and lay gasping on the bed next to me. I waited until his breath had quieted and then reached for the bowl with its wet rags and used one to cleanse both myself and my friend of his emissions.

He began to put his clothing back in order, clearly meaning to leave quickly.

I could not hold back my deepest passions any longer – I pulled him towards me, and kissed him thoroughly. My hand went to stroke his hair, and was surprised when its familiar sleek smoothness was interrupted by the band of black fabric. I began to undo the knot of his mask, when my wrist was caught in a vicelike grip.

"Now, now, none a' that, my dear wuh.... sir. You wouldn't want me to 'ave to bind your hands or nuffink, next time. I'll bid you good evening." I kissed him once again for good measure, to show that I was not at all frightened by that threat, and I felt him smile against my lips. Then he drew back from me, straightened his mask and clothing, and stepped lightly across the windowsill and out into the night.

As he disappeared out the window – and bedroom – from whence he came, no doubt to climb down to his own chambers like a madman instead of using the stairs, I sighed with contentment, and hoped that the heat wave would continue for a good long time. I fully intended to sleep with my windows open until January.


End file.
